


'Twixt such friends as we, few words suffice

by isitandwonder



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 06:18:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5237579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Listen, Sherlock, passion and desire are not things one can rationally explain. It's just something that happens between people. Sex is one of the most powerful forces in the universe” - here Sherlock snorted dismissively - “ yes, it is, <i>IT IS</i>, but it's also entirely inexplicable. It's not to be understood. It's to be experienced.”</p>
<p>Sherlock still looked at him, suddenly wide awake, blinking a few times, before asking: “Are you offering?” He sounded wary but also intrigued.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Twixt such friends as we, few words suffice

**Author's Note:**

> This just sort of happened...  
> It's lighter than my usual stuff.  
> I am violently procrastinating. I should really be doing other things.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

“But why, John?“ Sherlock nearly wailed, a strange sound when uttered in a deep baritone.

“Well, that's actually a bit hard to explain to someone who … you know ...” John trailed off, his hands gesturing vaguely up and down, indicating in Sherlock's general direction.

“No, I don't _know_ , that's precisely why I'm asking,” was the scathing retort John's sensible reaction gained him.

“And that's supposed to be the problem in a nutshell,” John deadpanned.

Sherlock looked at him somewhat bewildered, then shook his head briskly, marvellously achieving to convey his impatience, before walking over to his chair where he flopped graciously down, his arms dangling languidly on either side, his long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles.

“Why do people make such a fuss about it?” He huffed desperately. “It's not only distasteful, it's ridiculous … and vulgar.”

“Yes and pedestrian and mundane and tawdry and maudlin and carnal ...” John rattled off in his best mock-Sherlock-voice (which wasn't very convincing, to be honest but always set the detective off none the less). He was prevented from continuing his litany by a Union-Jack-pillow hitting him in the face.

“Stop poking fun at me. I asked you a reasonable question, _Doctor_ Watson!”

“Seriously, Sherlock, that's not something one can explain...”

“You mean _you_ can't explain it. Or, should I say, _won't_?” Sherlock snarled.

John felt his face flush. For fuck's sake, he was an adult, a grown man – something he wasn't entirely sure off regarding his present opponent – so he should be able to talk about this specific subject without blushing like a spotty adolescent. Then he reviewed his choice of words and winced inwardly. Freud would have had a field day.

“Look, Sherlock, for someone with your attitude...” he began soothingly, only to be interrupted yet again.

“What do you know about my _attitude_?” Sherlock exploded, bouncing off his chair. Suddenly, he stood in the middle of their living room, obviously agitated but also kind of lost despite all his raging fury. He turned his face away from John, staring out of the window, his lips pressed tightly shut as if to stop himself from blurting out something he might later regret, his fists compulsorily clenching and unclenching.

All of a sudden, the flat was filled with an awkward silence.

“The point I was trying to make...” John started tentatively but was cut short as Sherlock brushed off his remark with an icy “Never mind”, before striding towards his room, closing the door firmly behind him.

\---------------------------------------

“Sherlock?” John knocked at his flatmate's bedroom door some fifteen minutes later, which wasn't that easily accomplished because, at the same time, he tried to balance two cups of tea without spilling the hot liquid all over his hands.

As his efforts elicited no answer, he started to use his foot, kicking vehemently against the unyielding wood, to persuasively convey that he wouldn't be put off by passive-aggressive pouting.

“Sherlock, I know that you are in there. Please, spare me damaging our interiors any further. You do that enough for both of us.”

Silence.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you know what, I'm coming in.”

John took both mugs in one hand, nearly scalding his fingers, and turned the knob. He was aware of his intrusion being some kind of trespass; never before had he just bounced into his flatmate's bedroom uninvited. John tried to reassure himself that the man he was about to walk in on never gave a toss about other people's privacy or personal space but that somehow didn't help. He was still uneasy and self-conscious as he imagined Sherlock lying still and almost corpse-like on his bed, long pale fingers stifled under his chin, while he pushed the door open.

But the sight awaiting him had nothing remotely in common with what he had been envisaging.

Sherlock sat on his bed, his head in his hands, his fingers raking through his dark curls. His face jerked up as he realised that John was really about to enter his room, eyes dark and burning with some strange mix of emotions – anger, shame, fear? John couldn't tell, because in a split second, Sherlock put the smooth blasé mask in place he choose to wear when talking to less important witnesses or someone from NSY.

The two men stared at one another actually a bit embarrassed, until John handed Sherlock his tea.

“Here, just the way you like it.” John's voice sounded too loud in the dim room.

“Thank you.” Sherlock took the mug but did not drink.

John was the first to avert his gaze. He let his eyes roam, taking in details he'd never recognised before: Sherlock's table lamp on his bedside table (a cylindrical thing, crafted of clear glass and nickel-plated metal, probably original Bauhaus); the framed period table on the far wall; a photograph of an Irish Setter on his chest of drawers where other people might have displayed their loved ones.

The bed was unmade, some clothes left carelessly strewn on the floor (how on earth could a man who placed so much emphasis on his appearance care so little about the state of his expensive gear?). And right in the middle of this mess sat his slightly dishevelled and rather forlorn flatmate, still watching John intently while displaying a look of utter disinterest to hide being completely at sea.

Eventually, John squared his shoulders and stood to attention – he was a soldier, after all – addressing the issue simmering between them straight on:  
“Listen, Sherlock, passion and desire are not things one can rationally explain. It's just something that happens between people. Sex is one of the most powerful forces in the universe” - here Sherlock snorted dismissively - “ yes, it is, _IT IS_ but it's also entirely inexplicable. It's not to be understood. It's to be experienced.”

Sherlock still looked at him, suddenly wide awake, blinking a few times, before asking: “Are you offering?” He sounded wary but also intrigued.

John's whole world turned upside down but then, he'd always known that this day would finally come, hadn't he, right since their first meeting at Bart's?

So he just nodded, thought briefly _“Into battle”_ , before stepping over towards the crouched figure on the bed, standing too close, running his fingers through surprisingly thick dark curls for a minute to brace himself and then finally leaned in, pressing his mouth onto chafed but also quite plush lips, sensing stubble and reluctance and uncertainty and … _oh_ … reciprocation?!

Jesus, kissing Sherlock Holmes felt both more familiar and weirder than he had imagined.

“Have you ever done this before?” He had to ask this question, even if he doubted that the answer would have any effect on the course of the evening.

“Yes.” Sherlock looked at him rather gobsmacked, a very rare sight and therefore to be savoured tenderly.

“Good, that's … good … actually.” John was glad he had not violated an inexperienced virgin.

“In primary school, with Alice Munroe. We were both seven, so that might explain why we did not take things any further.”

John's stomach dropped.

SHIT!

“So, you have never … ever … anything … oh my god!?” John suddenly felt a little sick.

“Well, that's why I was asking. I need data, preferably acquired with someone I trust.”

“Preferably?” John echoed weakly.

“You know, if needs be...”

“For the love of god, do not finish this sentence!”

Sherlock's mouth clamped shut.

They rested their foreheads against each other while John's thumb gently stroked one of Sherlock's prominent cheekbones.

“Are you amenable?” Sherlock asked after a few moments of just breathing and stroking and appreciating and adjusting.

“Oh god, yes.” John whispered.

Sherlock chuckled.

“What?”

It started to develop into an uncontrolled giggle.

“Sorry, it's just … I'm nervous?” It was more a question than a statement, telling an awful lot about Sherlock's state of mind. The man was never unsure, let alone diffident.

“If you do not want to proceed, just tell me, it's fine...” John felt his own courage falter a little.

“No!” was the answer he got – perhaps just a fraction too quick.

“Okay.” John waited a heartbeat to give Sherlock time to recede his consent. Of course, the git didn't.

“If you honestly want to go on, you should get undressed.”

“Just like that?” Sherlock sounded rather disappointed.

“Well, I could assist you, if you'd like?”

Sherlock just gave a short nod.

“Well, okay, then...”

John started to unbutton Sherlock's shirt with shaky hands, fumbling a little with the top button, caressing the bared skin with his fingertips. He had to kneel down in front of the man - between his spread thighs, to be precise - before long, to level their difference in height. Sherlock’s fingers gripped the sheets at either side of his rather rigid body, as John’s hands moved over the smooth planes of his chest, his fingertips bumping over protruding ribs, stroking hard abs.

Sherlock didn't seem to mind but wasn't fully committed either, until John bit down at his collarbone. In reaction, Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath, looking down at John from eyes blown wide.

“Do that again!” he demanded and John only too willingly obliged, giddy for having discovered something Sherlock genuinely wanted.

“You like it rough, then?” he asked under his breath, only to be rewarded with the obvious answer: “How would I know?”

“Oh, never mind, we'll figure it out.” After that, there wasn't much talking for a long time, because John started to kiss Sherlock in earnest, biting and sucking at his lips until he caught on and opened his mouth just a little, to let John's inquisitive tongue slip in, stroking, exploring, caressing, nipping, until he elicited a passionate groan from the world's only consulting detective.

“You like that, don't you?” John breathed.

Sherlock just hummed in approval.

“Tell me!” John’s lips moved down Sherlock’s long throat, so he could feel him swallowing before he heard the answer.

“Yes, I like that.” It sounded breathy and a little bit startled.

“God, your voice…” John mumbled against hot moist skin, licking up Sherlock’s neck all the way to his ear, sucking and biting at the lobe until he felt Sherlock’s hands on his shoulders, clutching in a strong, nearly painful grip.

John pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s sweaty temple and inhaled deeply to calm himself down a little. Then, he leaned back and opened Sherlock’s cufflinks, one at a time, pressing his lips against the inside of each wrist, sucking slightly at the delicate skin, before pulling Sherlock’s shirt off his bony shoulders; John noticed the joints protruding beneath taut white skin.

“Lie down,” he whispered and Sherlock almost toppled back onto the mattress. His hair surrounded his face like a dark halo but his eyes were pressed tightly shut and his fists twisted the duvet again.

“Hey, relax.” John crawled up next to Sherlock onto the bed, his knees already killing him from crouching down on the hard floor. He smoothed his left palm over Sherlock’s chest and down his abdomen, pausing just above the waist of his slim black trousers. Then, he stroked his fingertips upwards again, feeling the fine dust of hair travelling down from Sherlock’s navel.

“Can’t.” Sherlock pressed the word out between strained lips.

“This is not how it’s supposed to be.” John remarked doubtfully.

“Isn’t it?” Sherlock opened one eye and arched a prominent eyebrow, achieving to look overwhelmed and inquisitive at the same time.

John laughed a little.

“No. You should actually enjoy this.”

“Ok, I’ll keep that in mind. Now, come on, hurry up!” Sherlock screwed his eye shut again and appeared even more tense than before.

John stilled.

“What?” Sherlock asked sharply as he noticed that John’s hands weren’t moving anymore.

“I can’t do it like this.” John declared, sliding away from Sherlock’s stiff body until there were a good few inches of space between them.

Sherlock propped himself up on his pointy elbows, glaring sulkily down at John.

“Why not? You’ve had your fair share of rather frigid girlfriends, at least you used to bemoan their lack of interest in frequent sexual encounters at great length, so you should be used to not overly enthusiastic bedfellows. Don’t you become squeamish with me right now.”

“Could you please refrain from insulting my sexually confident and self-determined ex-lovers as frigid just because they did not want to shag me six ways to Sunday?” John started to fluster. He should have known that Sherlock bloody Holmes would ruin even his first time with a combination of aggravating impatience and unhealthy demanding behaviour; the idiot had no idea what he was doing but that had never stopped the brat from acting a right gobshite.

“I don’t see why…”

“Shut up, Sherlock!”

“… as you himself labelled them like that and as you are a medical man …”

“Sherlock, I swear to god, if you do not shut it right now …”

“… I thought I could rely on your expertise in this matter, with all the boasting about _Three Continent Watson_ but … oh, perhaps it weren’t actually the females, it could have been some form of erectile dysfunction on your part, as you are probably more interested in male anatomy. Did you tell them to turn around and shut out the lights, so you could pretend it was me you were fucking up the arse?” His innocent tone barely disguised the acerbic content of his words.

John had gone very still during this scathing deduction. He just stared at Sherlock and wondered how the mood could have changed so completely within five minutes.

“I can imagine they thought that quite strange.” Sherlock went on, oblivious to John’s obvious discomfort. “Perhaps you even said my name during intercourse. I expect that to be quite a turn-down.”

John’s face had gone white. Hot anger started to boil up inside him.

“How dare you…” he bellowed, before he flung himself on top of Sherlock, knocking his arms from under him, pressing him down with both his hands grabbing tightly at Sherlock’s wrists – which he had kissed just moments earlier – pinning them above his head.

But that did not remotely silence his flatmate, who was now in his element, deducing at high speed, not caring if he insulted or offended the man he had tried to take to bed just half an hour ago.

“Did they refuse you? Did they struggle? Did they tell you to stop? But you didn’t.”

“Shut up!” John yelled, grabbing Sherlock’s arms so hard he was sure to bruise. He pushed down with all the force he could muster to stop Sherlock from fidgeting underneath him, and … _oh_?

_Oh!_

Sherlock was hard.

John could feel it through the fabric of both their trousers.

Sherlock Holmes was rubbing his rod-hard cock against John Watson’s thigh.

Something in John’s brain short-circuited.

He looked down at Sherlock.

His pupils were dilated.

He was squirming.

But he wasn’t fighting him in earnest.

Just enough to cause some friction.

Sherlock met his eyes.

“Rough, remember?” he whispered breathless.

“God, you…”

John smashed his mouth onto Sherlock’s demandingly, claiming it by pushing his tongue in as deep as possible.

Sherlock strained up to meet him, moaning. John started to bite down his neck, leaving red marks, then licked and sucked the delicate skin on the inside of Sherlock’s bare arms, still pinned above his head with his wrists pressed into the mattress.

John grinded his groin firmly against Sherlock’s cock and both men gasped.

“I’m going to fuck you.” John murmured in Sherlock’s ear. “I’m going to fuck you until you scream my name.”

“Given that my body is absolutely not used to such a treatment, that won’t take much effort on your part.”

“Stop talking right now. You have a disquieting tendency to spoil the mood.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.” John groaned, then moved south until his tongue encircled one of Sherlock’s already peaked nipples before biting down, eliciting some rather spectacularly needy noises from the man below him. He sucked and lapped until he was sure he could hear Sherlock beg.

“What did you say?” John raised his head and took in the sight: Sherlock’s cheeks were glowing pink, a deep flush spreading down his neck, some curls clinging to his moist forehead and temples.

“Please, John, fuck me.” Sherlock moaned as an answer and as that had been precisely John’s intent anyway, he moved back a little to hastily take of his shirt – Sherlock’s long fingers not really aiding by pushing the fabric up impatiently – and to unzip, pulling down his trousers, pants and socks in one go, before starting on Sherlock’s belt and fly.

John yanked the remaining clothing off, savouring the sight of Sherlock’s wiry body stretched out in front of him, his hands still placed rather enticingly above his head.

John took himself in hand and slowly started to stroke his hard shaft while straddling Sherlock’s thighs, who watched mesmerised until a drop of clear precome dripped onto his flat stomach.

Sherlock sucked in his breath, trembling.

John bowed down, bracing himself with his free right hand onto the mattress near Sherlock’s head and started kissing his wet hot mouth again, more tenderly this time, at least at first. But it got heated very quickly, especially as John wrapped his left hand around both their cocks and started wanking them, rubbing their hard flesh together.

John was leaking precome copiously by now but nevertheless removed his left hand long enough for Sherlock to lick his palm – who caught on to the idea fairly rapid, given his obviously dazed state of mind – for the more lubricant, the better (at least in John’s experience).

Thinking about it, John suddenly wavered. Up until now, he hadn’t had a very clear concept of where this was heading, despite Sherlock's vivid description of the activities he'd engaged in with his former girlfriends. They had been … well … women. With firm tits and plush bums and soft round hips and silky long hair. It had all seemed quite normal, at least to John.

Now he was setting off in a very different direction: Sherlock was everything but plush or curvy or soft. He was lanky, wiry, ripped – and undoubtedly male; the very evidence of that was actually throbbing against his own hard prick in his tight fist.

Jesus Christ. It hit John all at once: he was actually about to fuck Sherlock Holmes up the arse. The prospect made his head spin.

“John, please... I...” Sherlock panted, trembling under John's firm ministration.

John halted his movements, staring down at Sherlock, equally enthralled and keyed up.

“You alright?” his voice sounded deep and hoarse.

“I … I … don't … know?” Sherlock Holmes was stammering cluelessly – now, that was quite a turn-up for the books.

John gently removed his hand and bent down to kiss Sherlock softly, nipping ever so lightly at his bottom lip.

“Do you, by chance, have any lube at hand?” John murmured against Sherlock's mouth as the man beneath him had calmed down a bit.

“What?”

“Lubricant, Sherlock.”

“What for?”

**Oh.My.God.**

“To slick … _things_ … up a bit.”

“What things?”

“Do you honestly not know, or are you just playing obtuse?”

“That's usually my line.” Sherlock smiled, slowly coming back online again.

“And that's not an answer to my question.” John insisted, fearing the worst.

“John, don't get your knickers in a twist.” They both snickered at this rather pointless remark. “I am perfectly aware of the mechanics, so to speak, male-male intercourse requires.”

“We'll really have to work on your pillow talk.” John intersected, much less excited than only a few moments ago.

“But I seriously doubt this precaution is necessary.” Sherlock stated.

“You … doubt it necessary?” John sounded incredulous.

“Well, considering your rather average length and not that impressive girth, I am confident to put up with your penis without some artificial chemical substance up my rectum.” Sherlock explained matter-of-factly.

“Now, that's flattering. Honestly, Sherlock, do you think before you open your mouth?”

“Of course I do.” Sherlock protested.

“That was a somewhat rhetorical question. Believe me, we'll need lube. Lots of lube. And condoms.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically.

“This is not debatable. Haemoproctia is not only very painful and quite risky, it's also deeply embarrassing. Nurses love to take the piss. Gives them something to giggle over at the Christmas do.”

“But I'm neither in the possession of any of this.”

“But I am.” John hastily climbed out of bed. “Don't go anywhere.”

“Do I look like leaving this room any time soon?”

“I never know with you...” John smiled back down at Sherlock, before literally running up the stairs to rummage through his bedside cabinet, frantically searching for the small bottle of lube he knew he kept stored there for personal entertainment, so to speak, and strongly hoping to find a Durex as well. He wasn't sure if he still retained condoms, as he hadn't needed one lately due to a distinct dry spell regarding dates.

He finally located the discretely labelled and still half-full bottle, but his hunt for a sheath revealed – nothing.

_Buggery fuck!_

Well, actually not.

John banged his head once against his own sheets in utter despair, before scrambling to his feet to go back down again, where Sherlock was waiting for him to fulfil his rather cocky promise.

As he entered the downstairs bedroom, Sherlock was slowly stroking himself with one delicate pale hand, his glans appearing dark red and shining wet every time it pushed out of his fist.

John's mouth went dry, and his breath hitched.

“You took your time.” Sherlock complained in a low voice.

“I … sorry … Keep going.”

John approached the bed deliberately slowly, savouring the obscene but utterly hot sight of Sherlock Holmes touching himself.

“Did you bring the … supplies … you so vehemently insisted on?” Sherlock tried for a snide remark but somehow failed, due to his very obvious arousal.

"Partly.” John confessed while getting back into bed, pushing Sherlock's legs up until his knees were nearly at his shoulders. Sherlock watched this incredulous, but did neither question nor oppose John's action. Only his hand on his cock stilled, hovering unsure between his legs. He had absolutely no idea what John was about to do to him. Admittedly, he felt rather exposed but not in an awkward way, just verbatim, with his spindly legs spread wide.

That's why Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head when John pressed his tongue flat against his tight puckered whole. He didn't see that coming. To be honest, he hadn’t even been aware of the fact that people did ... this ... to one another. But never being one to fret about appropriate behaviour in general and hygiene in particular, he could easily admit to himself that he enjoyed John's commitment very much.

Sherlock's hand started to move again up and down his cock, but he had to stop when John pushed the tip of his tongue firmly into Sherlock's arsehole. The loud moan he uttered should have embarrassed him but he was by now far to spaced out to care.

After a few minutes of sucking, licking and lapping, John had reduced the world’s only consulting detective to a panting, quivering mess.

"Please, John, god, please ... just fuck me!"

"Can't." John huffed against moist, musky skin, before licking a long swipe all the way down Sherlock's cleft.

"What? Why?" Sherlock nearly shouted in disbelieve, his agitation obvious.

"Nwh cndms." Was the muffled answer he got. He had to pull John's head up between his legs by his short blond hair to yell at him: "What's the point if you are not going to fuck me?"

"No condoms." John clarified, his face hot and wet from his previous occupation, saliva glistening on his chin.

"I don't care." Sherlock growled.

"Yes, you do." John declared.

"No, I don't. I know for a fact that you are safe and healthy. You get tested on a regular basis, because you are a doctor and a responsible adult. And I'm a virgin. Also, the chances of contracting HIV or any other STD on just one occasion are pretty slim. And even if this happens, there's potent medication available if one is prepared to pay for it, so one can live..."

"Stop right now!" John sounded horrified.

"But it's true..." Sherlock started to protest but was cut short by John.

"Ok, if you don't care; but I do. Even if you've never engaged in ... penetrative sex ...or any other kind of ... sex " John couldn't meet Sherlock's eyes as he continued "... you used IV, Sherlock." He sighed apologetically. "I'm sorry but I'm not going to take chances with a former junkie."

Sherlock had suddenly gone very quiet.

"Do you trust me?" he finally asked.

"Not with this, no." John answered truthfully, finally looking Sherlock in the face.

"I got tested just six weeks ago. It should just have been for Hep C, after the incident with the harpoon gun, you remember?" Of course, John remembered. The murderous thug (a former fisherman from Estonia) had attacked Sherlock with his weapon of choice, slicing up his thigh, only missing the femoral artery by an inch or so. John vividly remembered blood dripping down Sherlock's leg, pooling at his feet. "But somehow, the hospital did the full monty, so I know for a fact that I'm clean. The results are in the left kitchen drawer, if you want to check."

John wavered. He knew that Sherlock Holmes was an accomplished liar; he could spin you a yarn without so much as blushing. John also knew that Sherlock would not hesitate to go to any length to get what he wanted - in this case, John's hard cock up his arse.

On the other hand, John was well aware that Sherlock cared deeply for him and wouldn't put his life deliberately at risk.

He had to make a decision and it had to be a quick one: trust Sherlock and probably endanger his health, or doubt him and surely put him off sex in general and sex with John Watson in particular for the time being.

Sod it! If he hadn't seen such riches he might go on living with being poor. But having tasted the sweet and intoxicating prospect of shagging Sherlock Holmes thoroughly, John cast all warnings to the wind and just nodded in both glorious defeat and probably deranged consent.

It took Sherlock a moment to catch on but as it finally dawned on him what John meant, he pulled him further up by his hair, kissing him deep and passionate, tasting his own scent on John's tongue.

When they had to part for breath, Sherlock tentatively inquired. "So, about the anal penetration...?"

John chuckled. "You are such a smoochy romantic, you gorgeous thing." Sherlock smiled catlike, looking smug and rather pleased with himself.

"Well, go on, then." Sherlock purred, spreading his legs even wider to encourage John to just shove home.

"It's not that easy, you know."

"John, for god's sake, could you please just stop fussing and get it on!" Sherlock harshly demanded, his not very distinctive patience wearing thin.

"You'll need some preparation."

"No, I'm ready. Watch me, I'm ready. I am so very ready, I ... _ah_!" Sherlock sucked in his breath sharply as John pressed just the tip of his index finger up his virginal hole.

"Trust me, I'm a doctor. I did plenty of prostate examination, I know about these things. Just relax."

After that, John generously lubed up his finger, pressing slowly in; first, just one, then, after Sherlock had stopped fidgeting, a second. When he could push both of them in deep and move without Sherlock's face contorting in pain, he started to carefully scissor them, until he could finally press a third finger in. He watched mesmerised as Sherlock's tight hole stretched around his fingers, reddening and swelling until it was eventually loose and slack enough that John could envisage his cock replacing his digits.

Sherlock's body by now was flushed pink down to his navel, sweat glistening on his long white limbs. His eyes were closed but not squinted tightly shut, rather displaying a dreamy expression on his face. After overcoming his initial discomfort against the unfamiliar intrusion, he’d moaned loudly and - always demanding - eloquently elaborated what he wanted John to do to him: "God, John, more, please, I need more, just give me more ... deeper ... fuck, please ... yeah, there. God, how I want you to fuck me, really hard, just buggering me senseless until I nearly pass out, until I see stars. I want you to come inside me, I want to feel you spurting your hot load deep into me, I want ... _JESUS_!" That had been the moment John's fingers brushed over Sherlock's prostate, shutting him up quite effectively.

"Do that again!" were the only words he'd gasped as he could speak again.

"Always so very bossy." John mumbled, grinning fondly.

When John was eventually sure that Sherlock was truly ready, the only decision left to make was how he would have him. John was aware that, for Sherlock, it would probably be more comfortable on hands and knees but that would deprive John of watching Sherlock as he entered him. If Sherlock stayed on his back, the experience might be rather inconvenient and slightly painful but it would reward John with a glimpse of Sherlock’s face as he pushed in.

Fortunately, Sherlock was a genius, so he sensed what John was pondering and told him firmly: "I’ll stay like this. I want to watch, too." With that, he rested his legs on John’s broad shoulders.

It could be really worthwhile to shag somebody with almost no sense of decent and sensible behaviour.

So, when John finally lined up to push into Sherlock, the two men locked eyes. Both showed clear signs of arousal and excitement, even nervousness, as Sherlock swallowed audibly before nodding, signalling John to proceed. John exhaled, once, then pressed slowly in, watching rather smitten as his hard cock breached Sherlock's sphincter, sinking deeper and deeper inside.

When he was half way in, Sherlock made an aching noise, and John stopped, looking up at his face again: Sherlock’s eyes were wide and dark, only a slim silver rim surrounding dark blown pupils; his lips were parted and shining wet and his hands clawed at the sheets, hanging on for dear life.

"God, John, this is ... strange." Sherlock confided in a low voice.

"Too much?"

"No, no! Just strange. It hurts a bit but ... fuck, don't stop. Go on!"

John didn't need to be told twice. He gripped Sherlock's slim hips hard and pressed in all the way in one go, until he was seated deeply inside Sherlock, buried to the hilt. He stayed like this until he felt Sherlock's body slightly relax around him and then pulled out just a bit, only to push back in after a moment. Gradually, he pulled out further, to slam in increasingly hard, until he vigorously buggered a moaning and writhing Sherlock, uttering profanities until his vision went white and he felt himself coming, spurting load after load up Sherlock's tight channel.

Sherlock was by now reduced to a sobbing mess. John nearly collapsed above him but eventually braced himself and pulled out of Sherlock's sore hole. Sherlock's legs slid down until his feet rested on the bed with John kneeling between his spread thighs.

Sherlock's still errect cock was bopping obscenely up and down, looking achingly hard, his balls already drawn tight against his perineum. John gripped the shaft around the base and just swallowed down as much as he could. He didn't give a thought about refined technique or fancy movements but simply sucked fiercely and committed until he felt Sherlock's cock twitch and pulse. Bitter, salty wetness flooded John's mouth and he gulped down as much of Sherlock's release as possible without blinking, rather savouring the taste.

After that, he must have passed out a few moments. He came round resting his head on Sherlock's nearly concave stomach, while long fingers lazily caressed his scalp. 

Sherlock hadn’t lowered his legs, so John could still glimpse the crack of his arse, thus watching milky liquid oozing out if it. He dipped down to taste it, licking up his own cum, lapping on Sherlock's sore hole until it ran dry.

When John finally felt able to move again, he crawled up Sherlock's body, hugging him tight while pulling the duvet over both of them. They were sweaty and sticky but both men couldn't care less.

Sherlock was already on the brink of sleep, nuzzling into John's neck, desperate for affection and - unbelievable - _cuddling_. John held him close while whispering sweet nothings into his tousled hair. "You have no idea how beautiful you are. Your face when I fucked you - so precious. You are gorgeous, you are ..."

"John." Sherlock sighed and John stilled, waiting for a scathing comment on his performance or a scientific question regarding the amount of ejaculate released but all Sherlock uttered was a very tired: "Shut up." 

"Of course." John felt rather embarrassed, having allowed his sentiment to get the better of him. He knew that Sherlock hated sentiment. He'd have to constrain himself in the future. 

"No." Oh, mind-reading, again. "I find your commitment rather endearing. It's just that I'm knackered. Can we please just go to sleep?" 

"Yes, sure, love." John mumbled into Sherlock's hair, not giving a second thought to using an actual pet name and a very telling one too. 

They could talk later. For all John knew, they had the rest of their lives to figure out the other's proclivities. 

And wasn't that something to look forward too? 

**\- The End -**


End file.
